


Hearsay

by 221A_brina



Series: The Crowbar Chronicles [5]
Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: (I fed her first), A very handsome old friend, Addendum, Alright then – off you go!, An old friend, And Then Some, And a slumber party too, And dessert, August Bonus Fic, C'mere..., Collection name: Don’t Believe the Rumours, Crowbarring new works into past (re-opened) trope collections, Crowbarring phics, Did I mention there'd be crowbars?, F/M, Food Porn, Go back to reading, Granted some folks call them prybars, He stays for dinner, Heh-heh, Hungry Jack!, Hungry..., I Blame Tumblr, I really don't know how these rumors get started, I really don't think that's going to fit, I'll whisper it in your ear, In which Mr. B's name and vocation are addressed, It did. I really pushed, Late But Creative, Lemme tell you something, MFMM Year of Tropes, MFMMSept2017, Now it appears I have to tag this as food porn, Oh wait – I started them, Or we could play telephone, Please keep your crowbar handy in case of emergency, Pushing My Luck, Quiltingmom said it was fine, Semantics again, Squeezed in indeed, Thank You olderbynow, Thanks, The power of the crowbar, This has been a public service announcement, Which was: Rumours and Gossip
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-30
Updated: 2018-06-13
Packaged: 2019-02-23 23:10:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13200558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221A_brina/pseuds/221A_brina
Summary: Don't believe everything you see or hear.ANDGossip makes the world go 'round.





	1. Man on a Mission

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place between March 20 – April 18, 1929, which falls between the end of S2E7 - "Blood at the Wheel" and the beginning of S2E8 - "The Blood of Juana the Mad," and during which, it's obvious things are not completely hunky-dory in the land of Phrack.

 

 

Tobias Butler was on a mission. His employer, The Honorable Miss Phryne Fisher, had tasked him with a goodly list of items to procure for a number of meals for her impending guest. 'A gentleman friend' who, she said 'had quite the appetite.' 

He allowed himself a small smile, hoping against hope that Miss Fisher and the Inspector had finally torn down the barriers between them in this long dance they had been engaged in; that they might succumb to a more... intimate relationship? Things had been progressing in that direction during the past year. Heaven knew there was ample attraction on both sides. They were a more than competent ( _a rather excellent one_ , by his reckoning) crime solving team, as evidenced by the Inspector's impressive case solve rate (something Constable Collins had boasted about on a number of occasions, so proud he was to be working for such a fine officer of the law). 

As he moved through the market collecting each item on his list, he continued to ruminate on the Inspector and his Miss. His previously hidden smile burst forth, encompassing his face. In all his years in service, he thought he’d never met a more matched pair. Though, at the start of their acquaintance, things were a bit rough around the edges. They'd had their difficult patches, yes, but he saw that they complimented each other quite well, indeed. Where the Inspector was more staid and thoughtful, Miss Fisher was more capricious and instinctual. The combination of the two rubbed off one on the other, lending a better balance to each. 

Tobias double checked his list as he paid for the last of his purchases, pleased that he had managed to acquire everything on it – a few unexpected bonuses, **and** several items on his 'wish list.' He mentally rubbed his hands together in anticipation of the cuisine he’d be preparing. He thanked the shopkeeper and pocketed his list. A motorcar pulling up to the curb in front of the shop garnered his attention, drawing his gaze out the window. Gathering his purchases, he made his way out of the shop to the waiting cab. 

"Ah… Mr. Johnson. Mr. Yates. Excellent timing as ever, gentlemen," Tobias remarked. 

Cec exited the cab and greeted the amiable manservant with a nod and tip of his hat. They met at the rear of the vehicle, Cec opening the door. 

"Lemme help you with that Mr. B." he offered, taking the topmost packages from the overflowing pile in the butler's arms. 

"Thank you, Cecil. Much appreciated," he said as they neatly stacked the purchases inside. 

"Blimey!" Bert exclaimed out of the side of his mouth around the cigarette dangling from his lips. "That looks like the makings of a right feast ya got there, Mr. B. Wonder who's comin' for dinner, eh?" He nodded towards the back seat, took one last drag on his cigarette, pinched off the end and flicked the nub to the curb. 

The men moved to enter the vehicle as Mr. Butler began to reply. "Miss Fisher is expecting a gentleman guest, whom, she advised, has an ample appetite. As to his identity, well, it would be improper for me to engage in idle conjecture." The corners of his lips curved up knowingly. 

Cec elbowed Bert in his side, a huge grin spreading wide, his eyes alight and sparkling. "Whattaya think? Maybe the Inspector's finally coming over for dinner? She's been tryin' for a while now, hasn't she, Bert? I'd say it's about time, eh?" he continued grinning as he ducked into the cab. 

Bert 'harumphed' and attempted to scowl, but he too, had a smirk on his face. "'Bout bloody time, indeed!" he chuckled as he grudgingly agreed. 

In no time the men were back at Wardlow, both cabbies assisting Mr. Butler in putting away the purchases. The quiet industry wasn’t lost on Cec as he queried the butler. "Where’s our Dottie today? I thought she'd be home." 

Tobias poked his head out of the pantry. "Dorothy has gone to visit with her mother this week. Something about a sick cousin or other. She's expecting to return by week's end, all things permitting." He ducked back into the pantry to complete his task. 

"Oh… ho-ho-ho…!" Bert burst out from behind a cabinet door, a wicked grin gracing his weathered face. 

Cec was quick on the uptake, continuing the thought Bert had started. "So… does this mean our favorite pair of detectives are finally gonna get some alone time?" 

"When the cat’s away?" Bert interjected with a conspiratorial laugh. 

"Aw… c'mon Bert… why yeh haveta give 'im such a hard time?" Cec asked as he attempted to chastise his partner, a silly grin still plastered on his face. 

"Just funnin', Cec. You know I haveta give that copper a leg pull or two. Can't have him thinkin' we’re best mates now, can I?" He brushed off his hands and looked towards the butler. "Well, Mr. B… Yeh need us for anythin' else?" 

"No, thank you, Albert. I think I can manage from here," he replied, wiping his hands on his apron before reaching for the recipe box. 

"C'mon, mate. We have just enough time to pick up Alice from Mrs. Stanley's and grab a quick one at the pub before we have to go to Alice's sister's." Cec grabbed his cap from the kitchen table and slapped it on his head in one swift motion as he headed towards the kitchen door. 

"And how is Mrs. Yates getting along in her new position as Mrs. Stanley's housekeeper?" the butler inquired. 

"She's all trained up now." Cec turned to answer. "Mrs. Truebody left last week. Mrs. S. seems to like her awright." Cec smiled thinking of his wife in her new job, pride evident on his face. 

"Good, very good. Delighted to hear it," Tobias replied, continuing his preparations, deftly moving about the kitchen acquiring the needed implements and ingredients. 

Bert puffed up momentarily as he volunteered, "You let me know if Aunt P... I mean Mrs. Stanley," he corrected as his eyes met with the butler's, "is being too hard on Alice. I'll give her a 'what for' if she is." He winked at Mr. Butler, sharing a smile. Following his partner's lead, Bert snatched his hat from the counter, made a clicking sound out of the side of his mouth and tipped his hat. "Mr. B." 

"Albert. Cecil," he acknowledged with a smile, letting out a quiet chuckle and shook his head as he continued preparations for Miss Fisher's evening meal. 


	2. Dinner for One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mr. Butler heads out for his weekly card game whilst Phryne has a quiet dinner at home.

 

Scents from the kitchen had wafted upstairs, drawing the lady of the house down an hour later. Phryne Fisher flitted down the stairs, and as she descended, the turquoise velvet sleeves of her top flounced, giving the impression of the fluttering wings of a colorful bird taking flight. Upon landing, she was immediately drawn to the kitchen and the delicious smells emanating from it. The scents that had ascended captivated her nose and caused her mouth to water. She drew in a deep breath, and spread her arms setting them on the door frame to the kitchen. She peered in, her head moving side to side, taking in the view. 

"Something smells absolutely divine, Mr. B. Pray tell what delectable creation are you spoiling me with this evening?" Her face was alight, eyes glowing in anticipation as she moved to stand next to the kitchen table. 

"Oh, this? Just a simple favorite of Mrs. Butler's." He paused, his thoughts bringing his beloved wife to the fore. "A comforting meal of sorts. She liked to have this when she'd have an evening in, then curl up with a good book." He continued to bustle about with the dinner preparations alternating between the stove and table. "Usually she would make a roast chicken, but I was delighted to chance upon Indian Game* at the market today, which I thought would be a nice treat."   

"Oh, Mr. Butler… you're far too good to me," she praised him, resting her hand on his forearm in thanks, her eyes relaying her gratitude. "Wherever would I be without you?" Her eyebrows bobbed upwards. 

"I shudder to think, Miss," he replied, a twinkle in his eye and a smile on his face as they shared their private joke. 

Much as he had looked forward to having a spinster for an employer, he did rather enjoy Miss Fisher's many escapades and antics, which kept him spry and constantly on his toes, not to mention made use of his many talents and abilities. _Mrs. Butler would have certainly taken a shine to the firebrand that_ _is Miss_ _Fisher,_ he thought. 

"Then we shan't." She shrugged her shoulder and let her eyes wander over the kitchen table. Spying a bowl of grapes, she plucked one out and popped it into her mouth. 

"Everything will be ready in about twenty minutes, Miss, then I will be off," he added as he removed the hens from the oven. "I hope you don't mind – I made two since they aren't very big. In case you get peckish later," he smiled, well aware of her penchant for nocturnal nibbling. 

"You know me so well, Mr. B.," she beamed, her appreciation evident in her countenance. "I think I shall follow your wife's fine example and catch up on my reading. A lovely way to pass an evening." She popped another grape in her mouth and munched. "One must enjoy the creature comforts when they present themselves." Phryne perched a hand on her hip and cocked her head as she issued the statement to the air as much as to her butler. 

"Of course, Miss," he nodded in agreeance. He continued to dish out and plate the food as they conversed, cleaning up as he went along. 

"Back in a flash," she blurted out as she rushed through the dining room and entryway into the parlor to peruse her book shelves for some reading material for her leisurely dinner.  

She dusted her fingertips gently along a line of erect spines, the pads of her fingers feeling the depression of the letters of the titles. Maybe she'd give that new Zane Grey novel a whirl; see just what it was that had Jack so enamored with them. Perhaps it might give her some additional insight into the man behind the buttoned-up façade that was the Detective Inspector. _Mmm_ _. Yes._ This was just what she needed – a little respite after the full week she'd had, and no doubt the busy week ahead.  

The muted sound of running water and clinking dishes told her that her fastidious butler was cleaning up as much as possible before leaving for the evening. She pulled the chosen novel, Nevada, from its place on the shelf, and stepped over to the bar to pour herself a pre-dinner drink. Gathering her book and drink, she headed back into the dining room. 

Mr. Butler appeared in the doorway as Miss Fisher set both book and drink on the table next to the beautifully lain meal. "If that will be all, Miss?" he paused, looking at his employer for confirmation. He nodded and continued, "Then I shall be off."  

"I think I can manage from here, thank you, Mr. Butler." She smiled as she bid him good night. "Do try to give your colleagues a glimmer of a hope of winning..." She sent a conspiratorial wink in his direction, then considered, "Well..." 

Gathering his things to leave, he chuckled and countered with, "No promises, Miss." He nodded and left out the kitchen door. 

Mr. Butler's prowess with cards had become legendary at Wardlow many moons ago when the whole household was stuck inside with no power during a particularly strong seasonal storm.  

Phryne surveyed the kitchen, grabbed another grape from the bowl on the table, and chewed thoughtfully. She started towards the dining room, paused, did an about face, grabbed the bowl of grapes and nibbled her way into the dining room. 

She slid into her chair and surveyed the meal before her, placing her serviette in her lap. _Indian Game, mmm._ _It's been an age since I've had that._ She inhaled deeply. From the smell of it, it was perfectly roasted - with sage, rosemary, honey and... another aromatic herb she couldn't quite place. It was accompanied by shallots that had been browned in the pan with the game, and beautifully caramelized in the butter and herbs.  

The accompanying vegetables - a mix of runner beans and julienned carrots topped with slivered almonds, a drizzle of honey and a dab of butter.  

She speared some of the vegetable mixture, getting a little of each, and took a bite. As she chewed, her eyes fluttered closed. Her mouth watered even more as the delicious combination of flavors exploded in her mouth. The creaminess of the butter was tempered by a touch of salt and the sweetness of honey. The textures were a wonderful combination of crunchy nuts, crisp beans and tender carrots. Phryne let her eyes stay closed as she inhaled deeply through her nose, savoring the first bite. Next onto her fork, a bite of Mr. Butler's famous gratin. 

When she was growing up in Collingwood, this meal would have been one she thought fit for a king, something far beyond the reach of her family's means. Now it was a common occurrence, but one she never took for granted. 

Phryne was immensely grateful for her current position and means, and had promised herself that she would enjoy every moment of living the life she had been afforded. Each and every day. Often times it was the simplest of things – good conversation, a good meal, a beautiful arrangement of flowers, or the feel of silk on her skin, for instance - that made her the most appreciative. 

She shook away the cobwebs of memory and dug into the rest of her meal. Tomorrow she would have to compliment Mr. Butler on his wife's delicious recipe. It had just earned a spot on her list of favorite 'simple but delicious' fare. No doubt this would be a meal that Jack would devour with gusto. She filed this thought away for later use.  

After a number of bites, she finally recalled the herb she couldn't place – chervil. Just the right balance of flavors. And the brie on baguette was a lovely palate cleanser. Mr. Butler was, indeed, a godsend! 

Halfway through her meal, Phryne remembered her book. Picking it up, she began to read as she continued to savor her meal. She was so engrossed in both, that it was over a half hour later when she finally paused to clear away the dishes and move to the parlor to continue reading. A quick stop at the sideboard for a whiskey refill, and she was curled up on the chaise longue moments later. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * In Australia - Indian Game. United States - Cornish Game Hen. Same bird, different name. 
> 
>  Nevada is a 1928 western novel by Zane Grey. It is a sequel to 1927's Forlorn River.


	3. The Past Comes Knocking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An old friend of Phryne's shows up early.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many apologies for the lag in updating. The muses went on vacation and I didn't even get a lousy t-shirt... let alone a post card.

 

Miss Fisher was still on the chaise an hour later (having dozed off ever so lightly - thoughts of cattle rustling and a woman fending off a horde of suitors as she pined for a missing man wafting through her head) when a gentle rapping on the front door could be heard. She wasn't expecting anyone that evening, though in two day's time an old friend would be coming for a visit.  

She ruffled her hands through her hair, unfurled her legs from the chaise, and set aside her novel. Another louder rap at the door helped clear the fuzz from her head.  

"Just a moment!" she called out as she approached the front door, bare feet slapping on the tile floor.  

The rapping sounded again as she reached for the handle, swinging the door wide. "Comi..." Her face and body froze in astonishment as she took in the sight before her. 

"Walton! As I live and breathe! I wasn't expecting you until Monday!" Phryne's face split into an enormous grin, arms spreading wide to welcome the tall and  ruggedly handsome man before her.  

He removed his hat and set it atop his luggage at his side. A lopsided grin broke out over his face as he boisterously greeted her. "P-nut! How the hell are ya, darlin'? It's been far too long!" He spread his arms wide, stepping into her. 

Phryne immediately wrapped her arms around him in a tight bear hug, giggling as he wrapped his, just as tightly, around her. He lifted her up, spun her around, and gave her a big, noisy kiss on the cheek.  

"Put. Me. Down. Ya big lug!" She managed to fumble out between gales of laughter and half-hearted slaps on his back, her legs flailing and scissoring  as he swung her round. 

"Awright Princess P... don't get all snooty with me!" A rumble rose from his belly through his chest vibrating outward; both of them shaking with laughter. The years apart melted away in an instant. As she slid down from her elevated perch, her hands traced around his neck, then tenderly cupped his face. 

"Ooh... but you are a sight for sore eyes." Her delight in seeing this man again after so many years made her heart full to bursting. Now back on solid ground, she grabbed his hands and squeezed them in hers.  

"Christ, Phryne! When'd you turn into a knock-out?! Hell... Who needs a right hook when you can flatten 'em with a single look?" he declared as his lopsided grin reemerged.  

"You shameless flatterer!" She exclaimed, reaching up to play with the knot of his tie. 

"I just call 'em as I see 'em, Princess," Walton countered, wrapping his arms around her waist, and leaning over to plant a quick kiss on her ebony fringe. 

"You always **did** know how to charm the ladies, you handsome devil, you." She threaded her hands down his overcoat lapels. "No doubt you've left a trail of pining paramours in your wake?" The broadest of grins stretched across her face. 

"As opposed to the string of broken hearts I'm sure you've littered the roadside with?" He winked at her, chuckling. "Aren't we the pair?" 

Phryne pulled back, once again taking his hands in hers. "Good Lord, Walt! Where are my manners? Do come in! Come in!" She let go of one of his hands, gesturing into the house with the other.  

"Here, let me help." She apologized as she reached for his hat and briefcase. "I'm a bit short staffed this evening. It's my butler's night off, and my companion, Dot, is at her mother's for the remainder of the week – sick cousin." Her eyes rolled upward along with the corner of her lip as she shrugged.  

Walton followed her in with his suitcase and valise, setting them on the floor next to the coat rack, while Phryne hung his hat on a hook and set down his briefcase. 

She reached for his overcoat saying, "Let's get you out of this and get a drink in your hand; then we can get down to the business of catching up." 

At the precise moment she was helping him out of his coat, his stomach growled. Loudly.  

 _Hmmm... where have I heard THAT before?_ Phryne chuckled internally, thinking of the many times her Inspector's stomach had 'voiced' the very same thing. 

 ** _My_** _Inspector? Where did_ ** _that_** _come from?!_ She mentally shook off the thought, a slight twinge of sadness painting her mental wandering. Their recent misunderstanding and miscommunication  over the events of Gertie Haynes' murder still fresh in her mind. She vowed to return to that thought at a more opportune time. 

His eyes rolled upwards; a self-conscious grimace was quickly supplanted by a bashful look on his face. "Ahh... well..." his face flushed slightly, "seems I missed lunch in all the rush to get here. Caught an earlier plane," Walt volunteered. 

Her eyes squinted at him as she asked, "Caught?" Pausing for effect, her eyes scrutinizing every inch of his face. "Or flew?" A knowing grin escaped as she spoke, looping her arm in his. 

"You know me, P-nut. Can't turn down a chance to get airborne in the pilot's seat." He shrugged. The grin on his face matched hers as the two pilots and kindred spirits shared a moment. 

Phryne reached for his hand, dragging him behind her to the kitchen; his steps halting and short as he tried not to stumble and step on her feet as he trekked the unfamiliar territory.  

"I believe Mr. Butler must be prescient. He made enough for two this evening, even though I was the only one home for dinner." She shook her head, a smirk edging her lips. _His forethought **did** border on the psychic sometimes, come to think of it._  

"Mr. Butler? Your cook?" Walton asked.  

"My butler, actually." 

"A butler NAMED Butler? Seriously?" He stood, agog. "You're pullin' my leg." He paused, then burst out laughing. 

"I assure you, I am quite serious,” she replied, attempting to keep a straight face. “Don't laugh!" Phryne countered, failing to keep from laughing. "Never mind," she added, waving her hand in front of her face trying to catch her breath. "It **is** rather humorous when you think about it, isn't it?" 

The next several minutes were filled with small talk while Phryne cobbled a meal together for her friend. The second hen was in the warming oven along with the gratin. In no time, everything was ready; she handed him a plate so he could serve himself before ushering them into the dining room. 

"Don't stand on ceremony with me, toots. I'm happy enough simply to have a table to eat at, let alone a chair to sit in." He set down his plate and continued to smile, still hardly believing he was here with his dear friend. He grasped her hand and squeezed, drawing her in again, hugging her tightly. "C'mere, you." 

Phryne returned the hug with equal fervor. Pulling back, she brought her hand up to his stubbled cheek, rubbing it with her thumb. "Though if I'd known all it took to impress you was providing a table and chair… Only the best for an old friend, Walt." 

"Who'r'you callin' old, sister?" he chuckled, "I've only got five and a half months on you."

"Well, when you're 16, just six months can certainly seem like a lifetime." Her eyes glazed momentarily, flitting through past memories.

"Mmm… and more so during war." His face became serious, briefly transported back to the past, then relaxed as he returned to the present. 

They settled in at the table, and no sooner had Walt taken an enormous bite ( _he definitely could give Jack a run for his money in terms of appetite,_ she mused), Phryne began to unleash a barrage of questions. Where had he been, what had he been up to since they'd last seen or heard from one another, how was his wife, what projects were next... 

"Dmmm... P-nnnnt..." he mumbled as he chewed and quickly swallowed to clear his mouth enough to speak. "Whoa there, P-nut. Give a starving man a chance to fortify himself a moment before you grill him, eh?" His rasping, rumbling baritone pleaded as his eyes lit with humor. "I get the distinct impression I'm being interrogated." 

She shrugged her shoulders and bit her lip, a twinkle in her eyes. "You know me. Patience has never been on my short list of qualities. And you **know** I'm always one for a good tale of adventure and derring-do. Besides... you always manage to have more than your share. I simply must know what my dearest friend has been up to." Phryne reached out and covered his hand in hers, thumb grazing over its roughened surface.   

"How 'bout... you bring me up to speed on your many antics while I eat, and I'll return the favor. Deal?" Walton said in between bites, moaning sporadically. 

His moans of delight made her smile and think about another man in her life. One who, now that she thought of it, had quite a lot in common with the man sitting before her. More food for thought. She chuffed at the pun. 

"Antics?" She paused then laughed. "Oh, all right," she grudgingly acquiesced, pulling her feet up on her chair. Wrapping her arms round her knees, she perched her head atop them and continued. "I never could say 'no' to you." She tried to inveigle his sympathy by ending her statement with a playful pout, knowing full well he was immune to her. 

"Say 'no' to **m** **e** , Princess Pouty?!" he snorted. "I rather think it's the other way around, sweetheart. You were the one who was always plunging ahead willy-nilly, dragging me with you, not even bothering to ask in the first place." He baldly winked at her, knowing she'd counter with another volley from her arsenal. 

"Me? Surely no? Must have been some other woman you know..." A mischievous glint in her eyes gave her away, negating any attempt at seriousness. 

 

* * *

 

As Walt devoured his meal ( _"My compliments to your butler_ _"_ ), Phryne summarized her goings on since they last communicated. Her return to Melbourne, starting her new enterprise as a lady detective, her work with City South and Detective Robinson, her continued efforts to keep Murdoch Foyle in prison. Reconnecting with Mac, ( _"_ _Tell_ _her_ _when_ _you_ _see her, drinks are on me." "Oh, trust me, she knows..._ _She's reminded me. Incessantly._ _"_ ) and Aunt Prudence's continued attempts at finding her a 'suitable husband.'  

"Dear Lord, Walt... a dental technician!" she said, aghast.  

He'd nearly spat out his food, he laughed so hard. "Seriously?" He shook his head at the well-meaning but completely off-the-mark actions of the staunch matron.

"I'm afraid so." She joined his raucous chuckling at the absurdity of it all.  

Their time apart had melted away, bringing back a camaraderie and kinship that began in their formative years. 

Once Walton had been plied with enough food (until he pleaded 'no more!' and cried 'uncle') they continued their conversation into the kitchen as Phryne cleared away the dishes. As she was finishing washing the last plate, she felt large hands circle her waist, gently tug her backwards, and squeeze. A moment later she felt soft lips press a kiss to the top of her head, then the weight of his cheek resting on it. She set the plate down, rolled her head towards his shoulder and reached behind, arms twisted, hands awkwardly grasping his backside. 

"You don't know how good it does my heart to see you, P-nut," he murmured into her hair, a tinge of melancholy lacing his words. 

Phryne turned in his grasp and looked up into Walt's eyes, a wash of sadness flowed across his face. She reached out and cupped her hand to his stubble roughened cheek, then dropped it to clasp both of his hands with hers.

"Tell you what, why don't we get you set up in the guest room, then continue catching up over some whiskey. Sound like a plan?" Her hands began to gently swing his as she started moving them towards the dining room. 

His face calmed, and his characteristic lopsided grin reemerged. "Well... if you put it like that, Princess, how could I say no? Lead on, McDuff." He turned her into his side and draped his arm over her shoulder, her hand grasping his dangling hand as she led them to the hall. 

Once in the entrance way, Walt reached towards his suitcase, pausing a moment as he saw the phone on the table at the base of the stairs. "Do you think I could make a coupla quick calls? To let a few of my contacts know I got into town early. I didn't get a chance to send any telegrams before I high-tailed it over here," he gave her a knowing wink.  

"Of course," she replied amiably, "help yourself." Phryne waved her hand towards the phone. "I'll set these up in your room." She picked up his valise and suitcase and ascended the stairs. As she disappeared from view, her voice carried down the stairs, "It's the second door on the right at the top of the stairs." 

"Thanks, doll!" he called up, and waved to the empty staircase. Walt stepped over to the coat stand and rifled through the breast pocket of his overcoat. He removed the well-worn leather-bound book, stretched the strip of elastic off the cover, opening it where his pencil was tucked in. Paging through, he found the information he was searching for, and sat down to make his calls. 

A minute or so later, Phryne padded down the stairs. Walton was still on the phone, so she slid by him into the parlor to retrieve the whiskey. By the time she'd assembled the needed implements and found her way into the hallway, he'd finished conducting his business, and looked at her for guidance.  

"Ready for that drink now?" She held up both hands – in one, she had the crystal decanter; in the other, two tumblers pinched between her fingers. 

His face lit up, and his lopsided grin returned. Walt nodded and said, "Lead the way, sweetheart." He swung back to grab his briefcase and followed his friend and hostess up the stairs.


	4. Meanwhile, Back at City South

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title says it all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jack finally sent me an update via post card. It got lost in the mail. Just my luck. That and RL has been rudely interrupting me. Typical, eh?

 

It had been another bright, sunny day at City South, and Detective Inspector Jack Robinson had, yet again, been trapped behind his desk for hours, buried beneath the all too familiar mound of paper. The goal for today: finish and file the requisite paperwork regarding the murder of Gerty Haynes. Coroner's Report in hand, his eyes glazed over the jumble of words in front of him. 

Jack absentmindedly tapped his pen on the desk as he continued to stare unfocused into the distance. Frustration got the better of him, and he tossed the pen onto the report. Pushing back from his desk, he leaned his chair against the cabinet behind, and brought his knee up, foot wedged on the undershelf. Drawing his hand across his brow, he massaged his temple, and let out the breath that he'd been holding.

The inspector had been slightly off kilter since the relayed message from Collins at the crime scene at the initial onset of this case. Come to think of it, off kilter was putting it mildly. A more accurate statement would be that he'd been completely knocked off his axis. This in itself was a startling revelation. One in a series of shocks he'd endured that wretched day. 

The first was the mistaken belief that Miss Fisher had perished in the crashed motorcar. The second followed on its heels with a jolt upon seeing her, in the flesh, revealing she remained among the living. An instant later, the overwhelming onslaught of emotions – an unanticipated rush of relief, anger, confusion, and heartbreak – threatened to overwhelm his already tightly wound and rapidly fraying nerves. It would have been almost comical if not for the severe blow he felt in his solar plexus causing an instantaneous evacuation of all the air from his lungs, and a gaping hole where his heart once resided. The simultaneous sensation of all the blood draining from his veins left him feeling like an insubstantial ghost of the man he was only minutes before.  

He rubbed his face with his palms, hoping to clear the cobwebs away. Something felt off. Something _was_ off... something he couldn't pinpoint... and it wasn't making itself known. At times like these he wished he could pawn off at least _some_ of the paperwork to one of his constables. But deep down, he knew _he_ needed to be the one to do the final review of case paperwork before submission. A final bastion of justice in the bulwark of law enforcement. Even one minor error could create a loophole causing a domino effect that would allow a crim to walk away scot-free. Not on his watch. Not if he had anything to do with it.

He dragged his lids open and tried, once more, to focus on the reports in front of him. He pulled one, then another, front and center; the Coroner's Report, once again landing on top. Footsteps passing by his side door distracted him momentarily, then his eyes fixed on one of the things that had been bothering him. **HYNES, MS. GERTRUDE MARGARET** **Date** **: March 20,** **1929** **CASE** **ID: RL – 781** **–** **JD** **.** He rolled his eyes, shook his head, and grabbed a piece of notepaper and a paperclip. _When will people learn the importance of spelling_ _name_ _s_ _correctly?_ _!_ It was something he regularly impressed on his constables. So much so, that he'd only, on the rare occasion, had to return a report to be corrected.

This time, the fault was the Coroner's, who had misspelled Gerty's surname as HYNES as opposed to H **A** YNES. It was imperative for official records to be correct, especially when it came to the spelling of names. How many records had been mislaid due to an error in spelling, or a case stymied due to being unable to find the proper information for the same reason? Normally he'd simply inform the erring party and give a stern reminder with an emphasis on being diligent. This time his frustration and anger rose, another telling indication that things were off. 

He was off his game and had been wrong footed ever since he'd received the disastrously miscommunicated message from Hugh at the start of this particular case, when his presence was requested at the site of the accident. He was off, and that unsettled him. 

Having reached the end of his ability to concentrate, the detective neatly stacked the paperwork on his blotter, resigned to the fact he would not reach the day's goal.

The Adventuress Club scrapbook that Miss Fisher had dropped off sat precariously on the edge of his desk, quietly taunting him. The dark green leather-bound album a blatant reminder of the one person his heart couldn’t bear to think about.  _Well... that will have to_ _be returned,_ he thought  disconsolately. At the moment he wasn't in the proper frame of mind to do so. At this point, he had no inkling when he might be. A thought rose as he gathered the scrapbook and Coroner's Report up with his things. He switched off the light and exited his office, stopping only briefly to speak with Collins on his way out.

By rote or ingrained muscle memory, he'd found his way home with absolutely no recollection of the journey, which was troubling. Once home, Jack stumbled in, his body taking over, performing its usual routine while his mind was somewhere else altogether. Shocked once again at his body's ability to mindlessly continue functioning, he found himself dressed for bed, whiskey in hand sitting in his reading chair in his study-cum-library-cum-parlor.

Having depleted his office supply several nights previous, he'd purchased a new bottle of whiskey on his way home. He poured himself several drinks in rapid succession, pausing to recall his last visit to Wardlow to return the ruined stocking Miss Fisher had stuffed into his police motorcar's exhaust pipe.

What should have been another pleasant case wrap-up and nightcap with Miss Fisher, instead wound up ending abruptly with two hearts on the verge of shattering amidst the wreckage of previously unrealized and unacknowledged emotions. The brief, but somber conversation leaving them both bereft, tears threatening. When he silently departed, an unrelenting ache began to take hold and settle into his bones.

He brought the tumbler to his numbed lips, and downed the remaining liquid, only to fill and empty it again in one swig. His eyes began to well once more. The hand still on the whiskey bottle, poured the last of the amber liquid into the tumbler in the other. As he moved to set the bottle on the reading table, his grip failed; the bottle tumbled to the floor, the rug the only thing preventing it from breaking. His vision became clouded. He blinked; a lone tear tracked its way down his face. He huffed. _Would that there was a rug to surround one's heart to keep_ ** _it_** _from breaking_ , he thought bitterly.

The weight of his scrambled thoughts dropped his muzzy head forward into his hands. His body silently shook. How... how had he come to this point? How had he become so attached, yet unbalanced? This was very unlike him, and quite contrary to the level-headed, measured man he had become after years of honing his detective's demeanor. How had a wildly charming freight train of a woman managed to seep under his skin? To permeate his life and fill his thoughts? A clever, crafty woman, with an independent spirit, and a heart as big as the sky. A brazen, reckless woman who was seemingly unaware of the impact her rash actions would have on those who cared about her. Those who loved her, cherished her.

Jack pulled trembling hands away from his eyes, puzzling at the moisture on them. He ran his hands up and down his face, scrubbing away the unwanted tears. Surrendering all thought, he pressed the back of his head into the antimacassar and closed his eyes.

Hours later, something woke him from his alcohol induced slumber. A noise, a chill, perhaps? He wasn't sure. Jack gingerly opened one leaden eye, then the other, unsure of his whereabouts. He took in the view before him, noting it was still dark. Apparently,  he had passed out. Not only was this a rarity for him, it was a downright aberration. He steadied his hands on the arms of the chair and prepared to stand, his head loudly protesting. Steeling himself for the onslaught, he gripped the chair harder and slowly, carefully, elevated himself to standing. From there he paused, making sure he was steady, before slowly shuffling towards the bedroom. 

As he approached his bathroom, he tucked in to retrieve some powders from the medicine cabinet; one to take before sleeping (again) and another for the morning. He took the first one, downing it with a grimace, then refilled the glass with water, and trudged to his bed.

To say that he was still numb the following morning, even after taking his morning powder, was an understatement of heroic proportions. The only consolation was his head had stopped throbbing. Fortunately, it was Sunday, and he wasn't scheduled to go into the office. In fact, he'd given Collins strict instructions that he was not to be disturbed at home today. Only under the most dire of circumstances was he to be contacted, and even then... He'd succinctly expressed that there would be hell to pay if it wasn't, which was why he'd left Hugh in charge. That way he was (almost?) assured of not being disturbed. He looked at the bedside clock, noted the time, and rolled over, settling in deep and surrounding himself in the doona. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you freeze frame on the Coroner's Report on Gerty Haynes, at the top it does actually read: **HYNES** , MS. GERTRUDE MARGARET Date: March 20, 1929 CASE ID: RL – 781 – JD  
> The things we catch in rewatch. ;o)
> 
>  **Antimacassar:** An antimacassar is a small cloth (lace doily, etc) placed over the backs or arms of chairs, or the head or cushions of a sofa, to prevent soiling of the permanent fabric underneath. The name also refers to the cloth flap 'collar' on a sailor's shirt or top, used to keep macassar oil off the uniform. 
> 
> Macassar Oil is a hair oil (often made with coconut oil, palm oil or oil of Schleichera oleosa, combined with ylang-ylang oil and other fragrant oils) which was made popular by a London Barber named Alexander Rowland. In 1783 he began to offer Rowland's Macassar Oil, and by the early 1800s was one of the first nationally advertised products. It was used as a grooming and styling treatment for the hair for the slicked look throughout the 1800s-early 1900s. Because the oil from the hair would rub off onto the furniture, housewives began to cover the arms and backs of the chairs with a washable cloth. They were either made at home using a variety of techniques such as crochet or tatting, or purchased. 
> 
> You've most likely seen these in your grandparent's home or on your great aunt's high-backed chairs. They are often to be found in museums with furniture from that era. The most common place you'll see them nowadays is on a plane, train or bus.


End file.
